To a Mountain Stream

I named thee once 'the silver thread,'
When, in the burning summer day,
I stept across thy stony bed
Upon my homeward way.

For down an old rock's mossy steep,
Thy thin bright stream, as I past by,
Into a calm pool, clear and deep,
Slid down most peacefully.

But now it is the autumn eve,
Dark clouds are hurrying through the sky;
Thy envious waters will not leave
One stone to cross thee by.

And all about that old steep rock
Thy foamy fall doth plash and roar,
Troubling with rude incessant shock
The pool so still before.

Thus happy childhood evermore,
Beneath unclouded summer suns,
On to its little lucid store
Of joy most calmly runs.

But riper age, with restless toil,
Ever for ampler pleasures frets;
And oft with infinite turmoil
Troubles the peace it gets.